


Five Homicides Never Investigated

by inlovewithnight



Category: Angel: the Series, Battlestar Galactica (2003), Firefly, Homicide: Life on the Street, Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-24
Updated: 2005-09-24
Packaged: 2017-10-18 05:15:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight





	Five Homicides Never Investigated

1\. Los Angeles  
"Mr. _Gunn._ " The cop lowered himself into the chair, frowning down at the open file in his hands, rolling the name around on his tongue like he was sampling its taste. "Gunn, Gunn, Charles _Gunn_..." He glanced up and smiled blandly. "Sorry. Little bit of professional humor. When we get a name like yours in here, we kind of run with it."

"Do you own a gun, Mr. Gunn?" the other cop asked, leaning up against the wall. Skinny white guy, wide puppy eyes that reminded Gunn of Fred in a weird way. _Don't think about that._

"No." His voice rang hollowly in the little box of a room they'd hauled him into. Ugly as shit, that room. These two seemed right at home. "I don't." Never needed one-- stakes and axes, those were the useful weapons where he came from.

"Good choice," the seated man said. "Guns are more trouble than they're worth." He tossed the folder aside. "Well, Mr. Gunn, I'm Detective Pembleton, and this is my partner, Detective Bayliss. Thanks for coming in to talk to us."

"I didn't," Gunn pointed out. "Your boys were waiting for me when I checked out of the hospital."

"Well, yes," Pembleton said, that same little smile fixed on his face, his eyes expressionless. "But you came along without making them cuff you or anything, and we appreciate that."

"Anything to help the LAPD." If anybody from the old crew ever found out he'd said that with a straight face...well, everybody from the old crew was dead. Forget it.

"As you probably know, Mr. Gunn," and now Bayliss had picked up the folder and was rummaging through it, "on the night of May nineteenth, a number of people wound up dead."

 _And you're only talking about the human ones._ "Yeah."

"Quite a few of them come up with a last known whereabouts of your law firm." Pembleton raised one eyebrow as Bayliss started tossing crime-scene photos down onto the table. Gunn kept his face stony as he looked at them. Lindsey McDonald. Marcus Hamilton and Eve-- he was surprised those bodies survived the collapse of the office. Another picture landed, and his stomach knotted despite himself. Wes. "Any thoughts on that, Mr. Gunn?"

"Are you accusing me of something?" He was tired. The stitches and staples in his stomach ached, which was nothing new, but still not fun. And these two smug sons of bitches were going to keep dancing all night if he let them.

"It just seems a little funny to us, that's all," Bayliss said, meticulously straightening the photos so they were perfectly parallel to the table's edge. "That all of these people go to Wolfram and Hart that day and wind up dead that night...and yet here you are, alive and kicking."

"I was in the hospital for three months," Gunn reminded them, folding his arms across his chest. "I had four surgeries. Just dumb luck I didn't end up dead too." _Dumb luck and Illyria._

"He has a point," Pembleton said, looking over at Bayliss, who nodded and smiled and said "That's true." Gunn wondered if the two of them choreographed this stuff, or if it was all improv.

"Says there that Mr. Wyndam-Pryce," and Bayliss helpfully shoved the photo of Wesley's body forward while Pembleton spoke, "stabbed you a few months back. You didn't press charges." Pembleton looked over the edge of the folder. "You didn't...regret that decision and decide to rectify the mistake, did you, Mr. Gunn?"

"Wes was a friend." _Once upon a time._

"He stabbed you." Bayliss probably got a badge in stating the obvious back in Boy Scouts. No need to ask about that; Gunn could _smell_ the Boy Scout in him.

"I deserved it."

Pembleton threw the folder aside again and flopped back in his chair. "Mr. Gunn, can you tell us anything about why all these people wound up dead that night?"

He couldn't help but smile. "Are you an open-minded man, Detective Pembleton?"

"I try."

Gunn looked down at the table. Dozens of names carved into the surface-- if he let his eyes unfocus, let them turn into blurry lines, he could still see that dragon swooping down. "Still. You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

2\. Cloud Nine  
"Thanks for taking the time to meet with us, Captain Adama." The investigator who wasn't a pain in the ass-- that was how Lee was distinguishing them in his head for now-- handed him a cup of coffee and sat down across the table. "We appreciate you helping out the civilian investigation."

"Of course," Lee said, attempting a smile. It would be a lot easier if the one who _was_ a pain in the ass wasn't pacing back and forth behind him, sighing and glaring and making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. "I fully supported the President's authorization of your inquiry."

"That's sweet of you, Mr. Adama," the pain in the ass snapped.

"He's got a rank, Munch," the seated guy said, sipping his coffee calmly. "Man's a Captain."

"Oh, pardon me, _Captain_ Adama." Munch paced faster. The click of his heels was making Lee twitchy. "Adama. A-da-ma. That's a name with some weight, these days. Lucky name to have."

"I guess." Lee gripped his cup tighter.

"What do you think, Lewis? Would your life be easier if you were an Adama? I mean, people would just _give_ you things. Ranks and titles and control of the fleet..." He trailed off as Lee jumped to his feet.

"What the frak is that supposed to mean?"

"Take it easy now, boys," Lewis said, cool as could be, not budging in his chair. "Munch, there's no need to be like that. Please, Captain Adama, sit down, we don't have a problem here, right?"

"I hope not." Lee sat again, still glaring at Munch, who rolled his eyes and resumed pacing.

"That's right." Lewis took another sip of coffee and glanced down at the folder in front of him. "So, Captain, tell us about the last time you saw Mr. Valance alive."

"Lieutenant Thrace and I were questioning him about the gun found in his briefcase." Questioning. Browbeating. Whatever.

"Yeah, Thrace, we're talking to her once she gets off duty." Lewis nodded and made a note in the folder. "You Viper pilots log a lot of time in the saddle, don't you?"

Lee shrugged. "That's the job." Munch was behind him again, and Lee's neck ached with the effort not to turn around and keep an eye on him.

"Yeah. Yeah." Lewis made another note-- or maybe he was drawing a hexagon. It was hard to tell. "Captain Adama, you were in charge of security, right? You chose the Marines at the door?"

"Yes..."

"And Valance just kinda winds up dead? A little while after you and Lieutenant Thrace get done talking to him?" Two more quick slashes of the pen, and yeah, that was definitely a hexagon. "We're having a little trouble figuring that out, Captain. Got any theories to help us?"

"Are you accusing me of something?" Only his many years of training in respect for authority kept him from getting up and walking out the door.

"Of course not," Lewis said, blinking. "We can't do that, Captain. Only military courts for you." He started on another hexagon, connecting to the first. "Just wondering if you had any theories to share with us."

"I had nothing to do with Valance's death." A simple statement of fact was always the best defense, right? Even if you weren't technically being accused of anything?

"Everybody in the Fleet knows you've got a hard-on for Tom Zarek and his guys," Munch burst out, storming around the table to stand next to Lewis.

Lee's jaw dropped. " _Excuse me?_ "

"Munch, what'd you have to go and say it like that for? Sorry about that, Captain, he just don't think sometimes..." Lewis glared at Munch for a minute, until the man threw his hands in the air and stomped over to a corner to sulk, before looking back at Lee. And suddenly he wasn't relaxed and casual anymore; his gaze turned sharp as he went on, like he could see right through Lee's skin. "But I'm just wondering, Captain Adama-- smart guy like you in charge of security, good officer...how the hell _did_ Valance wind up dead?"

Lee stared back at him, licked suddenly dry lips, and tried to think of an answer.

3\. Alliance Cruiser Praetor  
Mal was getting a little tired of seeing the inside of Alliance interrogation rooms. The time on Harken's cruiser after they found the derelict colony ship-- that had been plenty. Barely a week and one little shoot-em-up misunderstanding later, and here he was sitting in another one. Rutting hell.

The woman sitting on the other side of the table had her hair pulled back so tight, it had to be painful. She frowned at a datasheet, then handed it to her partner, who frowned at it as well and set it aside as if his fingers disliked it.

"Mr. Reynolds," the woman said, folding her hands on the table and looking at him, "you are in a great deal of trouble."

He swallowed. "I know you've got my name written down there on your datasheet, but we haven't been properly introduced. Not the kind of good manners I expect from Alliance employees."

"Civil servants, Mr. Reynolds." The man tilted his head to the side and blinked slowly. "It's more of a calling than a job, you see."

"Of course it is." Mal thought about that for a minute and nodded. "Yep, I can see that."

"But if you must know," the woman said, picking up another datasheet, "I am Inspector Russert and this is Inspector Pembleton."

"Pleased to meet you," Mal said. "I'd offer to shake hands, but mine are cuffed to the chair."

"Well, you're a dangerous man, Mr. Reynolds," Russert said. "Possibly a murderer."

"Now, what would give you that idea, Inspector?" Mal couldn't think of any bodies left around unaccounted for-- at least, none that would interest the Alliance.

"We found a body on Whitefall." Pembleton took the second datasheet from Russert and placed it neatly on top of the first.

Mal shrugged. "Lots of bodies on Whitefall. Some of 'em walking around, some not so much."

"Well, this one was not so much." Pembleton rotated the datasheets a half-turn to the left. "It had a bullet in it."

"A bullet that matched a gun inventoried during your last visit to an Alliance cruiser." Russert somehow managed to smile without really changing expression at all. It was the way her eyes didn't even flicker. "Commander Harken is very thorough."

"I'm sure he is." Mal nodded slowly and wiggled his wrists against the restraints. "I don't suppose you've come up with any sort of motive for me to kill someone on Whitefall Someone that you'd care about, at any rate."

"The Federation of Allied Planets cares about all of her citizens, Mr. Reynolds," Pembleton said. "As a loving parent cares for wayward children."

An image of Patience flashed into Mal's mind, and he had to admit that "wayward" might not be too far off the mark. "So...you've picked a schoolyard squabble at random to investigate?" Who the hell had he shot on Whitefall, anyway?

"Letting children work things out for themselves is one way that they grow, Mr. Reynolds," Russert said. "But this particular body, before it was shot with your gun, belonged to a Lawrence Dobson. A Federation law enforcement officer."

Oh, _go se_.

4\. The Admiralty, London  
"Thank you so much for giving us your time, Mr. Kennedy-- oh, forgive me, Acting Lieutenant!" The young officer lifted a pair of glasses to his eyes and studied his notes for a moment. "Yes. Acting Lieutenant Kennedy." He placed the glasses back on the table and favored Archie with a smile. "How was your recent excursion to France?"

"Not precisely well, sir," Archie said, after an incredulous moment's pause. "Our mission did not go...as planned."

"Ah. Well. No, I suppose it didn't." He nodded to himself and glanced at the man sitting beside him. "I am Mr. Bayliss and this is Mr. Kellerman. The Admiralty has asked us to look into some of the events that occured in France, Mr. Kennedy, and we'd like to ask you a few questions."

"Of course." Archie settled himself in his chair, wondering what the Admiralty could possibly want to know that would warrant calling in constables.

"Excellent." Bayliss seemed about to say something else, but hesitated and glanced at Kellerman, who continued.

"Specifically, Mr. Kennedy, we are looking into the death of the Marquis."

Archie blinked. "Moncoutant? I'm sorry, gentlemen, but I was not there when the Marquis was killed. I was stationed at the bridge."

"Yes, we know, Mr. Kennedy." Kellerman smiled slightly. "Mr. Hornblower was the only witness to the unfortunate demise of the Marquis, at the hands of the revolutionaries."

"He was most fortunate to survive," Bayliss added. They both smiled at Archie together, and Kennedy found himself profoundly unnerved.

"Indeed," he muttered, folding his hands in his lap. "But since you know that I was not a witness to the events, sirs, why am I here?"

"We don't need you as a witness to the _events_ , Mr. Kennedy," Kellerman said. "We'd like to speak with you as a witness to Mr. Hornblower."

"A character witness, of sorts," Bayliss said. "A witness to Hornblower as a man."

Archie's stomach sank. This did not bode well. "Gentlemen, the revolutionaries had taken the village. Mr. Hornblower was fortunate to escape with his life. He did all that he could."

"All, Mr. Kennedy?" Kellerman tilted his head to the side, his eyes narrowing. "The Marquis is dead."

"All that was reasonable," Archie amended, his throat suddenly dry.

Bayliss leaned forward, his expression suddenly going soft and his voice confidential. "You see, Mr. Kennedy, it's not that _we're_ terribly interested in investigating poor Mr. Hornblower...but the Royalist refugees here in London have some rather powerful friends, you see, and _they_ aren't entirely certain that his actions _did_ encompass everything reasonable."

"According to other witnesses at the bridge," Kellerman said, indicating another page of notes, "Mr. Hornblower managed to escort a young woman from the fighting in the village. But he was unable to do the same for the Marquis, the man he was charge with assisting and defending on this mission?"

"I'm sure the situation was...complicated."

Bayliss and Kellerman sat back in unison. "I'm sure it was," Bayliss said with another slight, unnerving smile. "But we'd be much obliged if you could clarify it for us, Mr. Kennedy."

5\. Colorado Springs: Stargate Command  
"Major Sheppard." The man's handshake was firm enough to make John wince. "Good to have you back."

"Thanks." John reclaimed his hand, shook it out, and offered it to the other officer, a red-haired woman with a grip that wasn't notably more gentle. "Nice to be back. Well. It was until three MPs knocked on my door."

"Yeah, sorry about that," the woman said, smiling faintly. "You were supposed to stop by here yesterday, but I guess you didn't get the message."

"I did not. But the six AM military wake-up call was nice. Kind of felt like I was back in Afghanistan."

"You got hauled out by the MPs a lot on that tour?" The man grinned at the look on John's face. "Take it easy, Major, we have all of your records right here. We're just playing with you."

"Sorry." John decided to share the special smile he normally reserved for infuriating conversations with Rodney. "It's just a little early for me. My head's kind of in another time zone."

"How many hours off _is_ Pegasus Standard Time, anyway?" the woman asked.

John shrugged. "I have no idea. What can I do for you folks?"

"Well, first of all, I'm Colonel Felton and this is Colonel Howard," the man said, gesturing for John to take a seat. "And this is a completely routine inquiry, Major. Let me assure you, there is no assumption of wrongdoing here."

"That's great," John said warily. "Why would there be?"

Howard and Felton glanced at each other. "You really _didn't_ get our message yesterday, did you?" Howard asked with a small, uncomfortable laugh.

"Nope. Yesterday was entirely message-free." John slid the chair back a little to make it easier to watch both of their faces.

"Well." Felton cleared his throat and shuffled some papers. "Interesting. We'll have to have a word with someone about that."

"What can I _do_ for you?" John said again, an edge creeping into his voice. Time spent with the MPs had never been one of his favorite activities, and this meeting didn't look likely to change that.

"We're tying up loose ends," Howard said finally, reaching up to tuck away some errant wisps of hair, "in the death of Colonel Sumner."

John had never actually been hit in the chest with a brick, but he imagined it felt something like this. "Dr. Weir and I both covered that extensively in our official reports."

"Oh, we know," Felton said, holding up several of the folders stacked on the table. "We've reviewed them, Major. But in the death of an officer, an in-person review is standard procedure."

Right. Military SOP. He should've thought of that. "Okay." He took a deep breath and nodded. If he had to drag all of this up again, he might as well get it over with. "What would you like to know?"

"Everything," Howard said dispassionately. "Just go through the events in your own words."

He blinked. "That's...that's my report."

"We know," Felton said, smiling politely. "But we'd like to _hear_ it, if you could."

"And if I can't?" It came out more sharply than he intended, and they both shifted in their seats, the smiles vanishing.

"We'd really appreciate it if you could," Howard said finally.

John closed his eyes.

"Take your time, Major," Howard said. "Just tell us the facts."

John looked at them. They waited patiently, ready to take every word he said and turn it inside out, looking for holes. It was their job, what they were trained to do. Probably what they _loved_ to do.

He took a deep breath, and started talking.  



End file.
